


The Flat

by OldDVS



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26566561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldDVS/pseuds/OldDVS
Summary: An offer of a flat near work, reasonable cost, nicely furnished.  Is there a catch?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 56
Kudos: 182





	1. In which we get to see the flat

It wasn’t that Mycroft Holmes kidnapped people. Really. Almost never. He merely expedited their arrival to a meeting of significant importance, at a location Mycroft determined would evoke the proper response to his expressed wishes. Sometimes these meetings were held in dank warehouses and the back of unmarked cars, true, but almost equally occurred in bland offices or, at times, nice pubs and private rooms in refined hotels.

So Gregory Lestrade, having experienced several of the less than idyllic Greg-snatching moments, was a bit startled to find himself in a small, generic room of a very nice hotel, sitting at a polished walnut table, while a waiter slid a plate of fine roast beef and herbed potatoes in front of him. Across from him sat Mycroft Holmes, who seemed to be having salmon with a small heap of rice, quinoa, and assorted veg.

“All he could think of to say was, “This looks good” It smelled good, too. He’d been intending to have yesterday’s sandwich for lunch. When he got back to work he was going to bin that thing. Mycroft had picked up knife and fork, so Greg followed suite. They began eating.

Not being a stupid man, Greg was both pleased and unnerved to be here. Mycroft’s “requests” varied from easy to impossible to comply with, and leaned towards time-consuming. At least this time he would get a decent meal first. He let Mycroft direct the desultory conversation and spent most of his time appreciating the food. It was only after the waiter took their plates and brought coffee that Mycroft leaned forward, his eyes meeting Greg’s.

“I brought you here to inquire what your plans are, now that you and your ex-wife have sold the flat. Have you found a place to live?”

Greg was startled at that. For just a moment he thought he was getting a proposition, but those cool blue eyes only reflected a mild interest in his answer. 

“Still looking,” he admitted. For something he could afford in a place he wanted to live, close to work. He’d spent hours on-line and looked at three places so far. It appeared he was destined to live in either a tidy soulless and overpriced box or a disintegrating and overpriced “classic” and either way, it was going to pinch his wallet, even with his half of the money from the flat eventually finding its way to his bank account. 

“I have a location I would like you to consider.”

All Greg could do was send an inquiring look Mycroft’s way and sip on his lovely coffee.

“Several agencies keep a number of flats for various purposes. Safe houses, security, some even as camouflage, one might say. Sometimes it is to our benefit to have a flat or house occupied.”

“Hiding secret organizations in the basement?” Greg joked.

“Not often,” Mycroft replied dryly. “This particular flat needs a responsible and respectable tenant.”

“No wild parties, blasting music, screaming domestics?” Greg suggested.

“Quite. Someone who might notice anything amiss. Who would lock up when they left, always. It comes with a garage.”

“Don’t have a car.”

“But you use one for your cases, at times. The flat is not a large space, but it is conveniently located with shops nearby and public transportation almost at your door.”

“Any disadvantages you haven’t yet mentioned?” Greg asked. Because he knew there had to be at least one.

“Several. There are steps from one level to another. The windows are tinted so that one might look out but not in. There are flats above you, so there might be the usual issues of noise upon occasion. You’ll have to go through a series of security trainings and and sign a non-disclosure agreement. You will not necessarily be put in danger by living in this location, but it is not outside the range of possibility that you or some of your neighbors might be vulnerable to attack. Two drivers for a security service share the building, as well as five other individuals.

“On the positive side, there are laundry facilities in the flat, although small. Excellent security, and, of course, a reasonable rent.” 

The amount he mentioned was actually...more than reasonable. Who knew Mycroft Holmes understood the concept of affordable housing?

“And…?” Because there had to be a catch. A big one.

“I will explain on site.” Mycroft said primly.

Greg glanced at his watch. 

Mycroft said, “You put in fourteen hours yesterday. I’m sure there will be no problem if you take an extra hour for lunch today.” Greg didn’t argue it. Although, he did wonder what the paperwork on that hour looked like at the other end once Mycroft’s people got done with it. Mycroft was standing up, so Greg took a last gulp of his coffee and got up as well. They went to the corridor, across the lobby, and out to the street, where a silver car awaited them. 

“Not black?” he said, sliding into the back at Mycroft’s gesture. 

“No.” Well, that made sense. Those black cars were noticeable, but silver or white, those were everywhere. Only ten minutes to make the trip. Holmes had probably selected the hotel because it was fairly close. The drive took them through a warren of side streets and through some very nice neighborhoods. They pulled up to a garage door leading directly off the street and it opened. The driver slotted them neatly inside and stopped the engine.

Mycroft gestured towards a black square on the wall. “Should you obtain a vehicle or if you’ve signed one out for a case, I must point out there are sensors and cameras to allow you to know what traffic in the street before you exit. It works with your phone.”

All very high tech. Technology had its uses, but Greg wasn’t really into it. Good thing he seldom had to requisition a car.

“There is a door from here into the entryway, or one can access the entry from the street.” Mycroft used a key card to open the door. Yeah. Technology.

They stepped into a very plain entry, a box of blandness with a pretty pattern of brown tile on the floor. The door opposite, however, was varnished black, very nice. The key card again, and Mycroft led the way into…. It wasn’t to his taste, but it was a very nice space. All the furniture looked like it had been stolen from a spaceship, but there was a bank of windows high on the wall which let in more light than he had ever had in any flat he had ever lived in.

It was basically one room with a loft on the far wall. Here at the entry, he faced an area with a sofa and two chairs against the wall. These faced a large-screen TV mounted directly across on the other wall. An array of shelves and cabinets under the TV looked practical as well as attractive. They walked between the TV and the furniture through to the kitchen. It was done in white and bamboo, had the most mod of cons. To the left, under the stairs, the laundry facilities, including a fold-down ironing board. There was a narrow column of cupboards, Mycroft opened one to show where the iron was kept.

To the left of the stairs was a door which Mycroft opened to show a very small space containing a toilet and sink. The broad stairs led up to a loft above the kitchen. Mycroft again led the way. It was all tans and blues up here. A huge bed, two sets of drawers, a nook with a computer desk, all sitting on a thick, dense carpet in a swirly pattern of bronze amid a rich coffee color and a shade he might have called sand but he was sure there was another name for it. Two closets. More built-in storage, too.

The room was open on the narrow side where the stairs ended and on the right side where one might expect a wall, there was a woven lattice that allowed one to look out over the sitting room portion of the flat. It did not allow anyone down there to look into the sleeping room, however. At the top of the stairs on the left was the door to a generously apportioned bathroom. 

Mycroft methodically pointed out the small luxuries, including heated towel bars, and the sliding doors of the cabinets. If he ever got tired of government work, Mycroft could go into real estate; he was efficiently exhibiting and explaining even before a question formed in Greg’s mind. When he saw Greg glance down he said, “You could bring your own furniture, if you like. This can go into storage.”

“I like it up herebut...the sofa and hairs...not so much,” Greg confessed.

“Easily fixed. Now. The reason this flat is available to only those of proven reliability and integrity,” he spoke as he opened the closet, “is that it is connected to a hidden corridor which leads to a a nearby building. The residents of that building have high security needs. In an emergency, they can escape from their apartments and take one of several emergency exits. One of which opens up into your closet.” He demonstrated a secret door. 

Mycroft added, “You’ll have to be careful never to block this entrance. You need not worry about random interruptions of your private space. This is truly an emergency only failsafe, and only to be used in cares of dire need.”

“I see.” He managed to say that rather than let his actual thoughts get out of his mouth. His mind was busily making connections, and he said, “Would one of those persons of importance be...you?” Which could explain why Mycroft was the one giving this tour.

“I would not be allowed to say,” Mycroft said. Which was a plain yes to Greg. 

“So if you got lonely, you could come by for a beer and a movie,” Greg suggested.

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted and he looked absolutely stunned for a moment. Then he only shook his head and said, “Are you interested?” 

He meant the flat. Greg knew that. But what came out of his mouth was, “I could do with the company. And you can’t work all the time.”

He again managed to evoke a stunned look on Mycroft’s face. “I...don’t believe it will be a concern.” Certainly, it implied, not a concern of Greg’s. “But do you have an interest in the flat and the arrangement?” 

Greg looked around, and didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”

“Excellent. Here is the key card. We will program a code in for you a s we leave. You may move in at any time, but when you are ready to transfer your goods, please contact the number you will find in your phone. Everything will be picked up and delivered.”

And gone over by the security guys before it came here, but Greg was okay with that. 

“You’ll be contacted with the schedule for your security training, and the paperwork. Thank you for making this choice. It will ease a number of concerns.”

He didn’t even want to know. 

“Which items do you wish removed before your belongings arrive?” Mycroft asked. 

“Just the sofa and chairs,” Greg said.

“You don’t like the rug in this area either,” Mycroft said. “Would you prefer to provide one,or should we substitute another?”

“Something in brown? And I don’t care about the two side chairs, but for once I am going out and buying a piece of furniture that is exactly what I want. Something comfortable I can fall asleep on.”

“Should you be loaning the use of it to a friend you will have to submit the name. There will be database accounting for your regular visitors. Anyone new will be flagged and you may have...a bit more paperwork.”

Well, that should be fun. But he had to face it. In the last ten years, he had offered his couch to only two people, and one of them had been Sherlock. And the other his cousin His wife...ex-wife... didn’t have the sort of family that visited, hadn’t had the sort of friends you offered a couch to. He was pretty sure that if she was staying over at someone’s house, she wasn’t sleeping on the couch.

He shook off the thoughts to pay attention as his password was put into the system.

“Let me drop you off at your office,” Mycroft said as they climbed into the back of the car. The black panel on the wall now showed the street outside, and it was easy to back out and avoid traffic. 

“There are a few more details,” Mycroft began, and then he gave them in a clipped, efficient voice for the next ten minutes. 

Greg had the impression that Mr. Holmes had been just a tiny bit flustered by their earlier exchange. That seemed odd, that a tiny innuendo and a hint of an invitation should case Mycroft Holmes to come up with this non-stop verbiage. Not that it wasn’t all useful to know, vital even. But, you’d think no one had ever flirted with him before. 

Greg had time to wonder if he made the right choice. It was the best flat on offer, sure. But...it wasn’t the security aspects, or the thought of desperate people tumbling into his bedroom in the middle of the night. It was the thought of Mycroft Holmes slipping into his bedroom in the middle of the night. The idea was too appealing, and one glance at Mycroft’s frowning face told him it wasn’t going to happen. 

The car glided to a stop. He thanked Mycroft warmly and stepped out, glancing at his watch as he did so. A couple hours left to work and then he could go home and start packing up. And he’d have to call Marguerite.


	2. In Which Greg Leaves the Old Life Behind

At the end of the day, Sally Donovan dropped off her paperwork and turned to leave, but Greg stopped her.

“Sally?” It was code. If he wanted to talk business, he would have called her Donovan or Sargent.

She turned around expectantly.

“We’re you sayin’ you had a brother or cousin or something starting out, needing some things for his flat?”

Sally’s eyebrow rose. “I said my cousin had falling out with his flatmates and needed a new place to live. He found one, a total tip, but has absolutely nothing to put into it and he was trying to talk me into giving him almost everything I own.”

“And you shot him down in short order, yeah. Here’s the thing. Sold the flat, found a new place, mostly furnished. When the ex moved out of our place, she took just her clothes, then came back while I was at work and not only took the rest of her possessions, she helped herself to whatever of our joint property she felt she needed.”

“I do remember how mad you were about the TV,” she admitted cautiously. “And how fast you got the lock changed.”

Greg winced because he, too, remembered his rant about that. 

“So my lawyer says I have to give her one last chance at what’s left, and have her sign off on it. My plan is to go home, pack up my stuff and have it all out of there before I call her. She won’t want much. She got all the high end items with the first raid. But do you suppose your cousin might come and haul away the rest? Use it, sell it, I don’t care.”

Sally straightened up. “God yes,” she said, and whipped out her phone. 

While she called, Greg said, “You’ll need a small lorry if she doesn’t want the appliances. There should be at least one bed. Unless her majesty decides to take them both just to continue to prove her right to reign as the queen of the damned.”

Sally paused. She’d heard a lot during the two years it had taken her boss to finally be free of his marital mistake, but this was more direct than usual. She shrugged and lifted her phone, moving out to the hall to speak.

Greg sorted through the papers she had handed to him, and slid them into the drawer for tomorrow. He began clearing his desk for the night. Sally popped in and said, “You have yourself one happy kid. I’m sending you his number. You can call him when you want him to come? He’ll need to do any moving at night. Work,” she explained.

“Sure. It needs to all move on fairly quickly, I have to be out at the end of the month.” 

“Thanks again, boss. See you tomorrow.” Sally was on her way, already punching more buttons on her phone. Greg sucked in a big breath and reached for his own phone. She answered almost at once. Nice change. Sometimes she just let it go to voice-mail. It let her think she was in control. According to his calculations, if he could get her to answer, he would only have to dial this number four more times in his life. That made him happy.

“Megs. I need to talk to you about the things you left behind. Quite by accident, sure, but the lawyer says we need to get together one last time, and you need to sign off on what you take and that you’re satisfied you have everything you’re legally entitled to.”

“I can’t….” she began impatiently.

“Not tonight. Tomorrow night?”

“I...no, keep the crap. I don’t want to deal with it.”

“But you want to deal with paperwork and paying your legal eagle more money?”

That got her. “Fine. Tomorrow night. Six.”

“You know my job and my commute. Seven.”

“Seven.”

“You are allowed to bring someone.” 

“I’ll bring Natalie.” The off and on best friend? Fine.

“Good. Tomorrow,” he said, and punched the button to cut her off before she came up with anything else. Now he had to decide who to call for himself. He let his mind drift a bit as he went on autopilot, closing down, signing over, down the lift, out into the street, then the tube, after which he would walk five blocks, or, if exhausted, take the bus. Thinking how much easier it would soon be to get to and from work, he smiled. 

He let himself into his...former home and looked around. Right. Change clothes, a quick shower, and…. And there was a big pile of flat boxes, a professional looking tape dispenser, two huge black markers and a pair of scissors on his table. Of course. Why wouldn’t there be. At least he had some room at the table to put his plate. He opened the fridge and pulled out yesterday’s leftovers, sliding them into the microwave and trying to remember if there was a microwave at the new place. He rather thought there was. He decided that even if there wasn’t, he was letting this small annoying unit go. He’d just bought it to replace the much larger one that had vanished with the ex.

He reviewed his tasks as he ate. There was almost no other food in, he had been eating through what was in the cupboards in anticipation of the move. It had made for some very odd meals, but nothing new there. And at least he didn’t have to scrub everything down when he left. The new owners were dong a remodel, said it wasn’t needed. 

Greg taped up a few boxes and started filling and labeling them. It went quickly, and he piled the boxes neatly at the door, six high. He left the linens, the sheets that wouldn’t fit the new bed, the small bits of furniture. He took his favorite chair, packed up his desktop computer, emptied drawers. He labeled his file cabinet and the other pieces he wanted to take that would be difficult to move by himself. He packed his old tapes, his disks, his various electronics. 

When he packed up his clothing he took the opportunity to leave behind the things which didn’t fit well, items his ex had picked out that he had hardly worn, and a few pieces with bad memories attached. Which was about half of what he owned, it turned out. 

He found a few things his ex had overlooked and started a box for them. The kitchen took longest. He sorted out there, too, pruning it down to items he actually used and the forks and spoons he had brought when he came. He found, in the back of his cupboard, his grandmother’s silver in the carved wooden box and wondered how the hell his ex had missed it. He packed it carefully and put the kitchen towels on top.

You don’t realize how much crap you have until you have to move it. It was well past two in the morning when he staggered into the shower and then to bed. He got up at his regular time, feeling surprisingly good. and finished a few labels as he drank his coffee and made and ate the last two pieces of toast with the last of the jam. He made six trips down to the rubbish bin and then was on his way to work. He used his commute to send messages saying his things were ready to be picked up, and to a friend of his asking if he were free that night to stand by.

He got a reply back from Ed just as he was walking into his office. 

Sally was there. “Jex says he can be there whenever you call, including tonight, but he can’t get the van until tomorrow,” she said without any introductory pleasantries. Greg was used to that and replied “Good,” even as most of his attention was on his email. Meeting at four. God, he hoped it didn’t run long.

But it didn’t and Greg even got off work on time. He picked up Chinese on his way home.

The first thing he noticed after opening the door was the emptiness. All his boxes were gone, as well as the furniture he had tagged. Everything else had been brought out, the beds dis-assembled, the remaining boxes made up, filled, and lined up on the table, open. The things he’d left to use tonight were gone, too. Huh. He had assumed he’d be spending one more night here, but apparently not. He sat down at the table and managed to eat his dinner sitting on the wobbly chair and with the lone fork he found next to the sink.

He was finishing the last bite when there was a knock on the door. It was, thank goodness, Ed. All six foot four of him. But that wasn’t the reason Greg had chosen this particular friend to see him through. It was the clerical collar and the friendly calm. They sat on the sofa, catching up. Megs ...wait, wasn’t it Roxxy now? wasn’t on time. She was almost an hour late. As expected. 

She’d changed her first name three times during the time they were together and he had never understood why. Just knew that she got mad if he forgot. She was often late in some passive aggressive way enough times that when she started leaving promptly for meetings and appointments he had wondered what she was up to. To the point that when Sherlock revealed she was seeing the PE teacher it was not at all the shock it could have been.

There was an impatient knock. He got up slowly and opened the door. 

Her friend Natalie came in first, followed by the woman he had once been entirely devoted to. His ex was as beautiful as they day he had met her. Snow White, he’d called her once, with her black hair, white complexion and red lips. She’d called him Prince Charming. He hadn’t really felt he fit the role, but later, he had decided that her problem was, indeed, that she’d wanted a fairy-tale prince and gotten, instead, a workaholic cop. She was doomed to disappointment. 

Natalie said, “Hi, Greg” and perched herself on a chair, her nose in her phone. Natalie had blonde hair now, he noticed. 

“Not realized the place was this big,” was what Megs said instead of hello.

“Amazing, isn’t it,” Greg said mildly. “You remember Ed?”

She frowned. “Right. Let’s get this over.” She wandered off, going from room to room. 

When she was poking through the boxes on the table, Ed said, “Greg collected up what you might still want and has it in the box by the door. Anything you want you can just add to your box. I’ll help you carry it down if you’d like.”

She glanced at the door and said, “No thanks.” Ed just shrugged and traded an amused glance with Greg.

“I have the list of the things you took when you left. I need you to sign off on it.” Greg handed it over. “Be honest. I have pictures,” he added. “You’ll also need to initial next to the high ticket items you don’t want. Fridge, dishwasher, table.”

He could see her uncertainty. No place to store them, but part of her didn’t want to give them up. Greg wondered if her situation with the P.E. teacher was as solid as she first believed. “Sell them, and I get half,” she decided.

“After what you already scooped up? No. You got more than half. Be happy with it. Besides, you’re leaving me stuck moving the heavy stuff. That should make you happy enough.” He saw her smirk. It did, indeed, make her happy to inconvenience him. He handed her a pen and watched her scrawl her name several times. And then...she and her box and her texting friend went out the door. He drew in a deep breath. 

“Not constantly demanding, and she didn’t call you a toad once. Do you suppose she’s sick?” Ed asked.

Greg nodded. “I can’t believe it was that easy. It’s even early. I’ll call, have the kids over to pick up at least some of this stuff. You don’t have to stay,” he added. 

“Ta. You owe me that meal. Next week?”

“Money well spent. Thank you for doing this.” The door closed with a thunk. He was alone. He went and got some water while he texted cousin Jex.

It was like being invaded. Six young men and an older woman, chattering and happy, descended on him within the hour, and he was thanked several dozen times as one load after the other went out the door. All that was left were the big items. He stood looking around after the door closed behind the last bouncing teenager and he rolled his shoulders and tried to throw off his exhaustion. It was almost midnight. He decided to leave his last box until tomorrow. But then, there was a black car waiting on the street and he went back up for after all.


	3. Settling in

The shower at his new place had pulsing jets of water that made him groan in pleasure as they hit his aching shoulders. He had walked right by all the boxes, noting that some pieces of furniture were already in place but not having the energy to deal with any of it. Toilet. Shower. Dry off. Bed. Didn’t even stop to dig out his pajama bottoms, which were what he usually wore to bed. He only had enough time to realize the bed was comfortable before he was out like a light.

He woke up disoriented, turned over, and finally figured out where he was. He stretched. Oh, the lovely lovely bed, and he had to drag his arse out of it and go to work. Although it was Friday, and with any luck he’d have some of his weekend to sort everything out. His morning routine was shortened by having nothing at all in the fridge. He decided to get breakfast and coffee on the way. He’d woken up at his usual time, but his commute should be about twenty minutes shorter now. 

He arrived at his desk after a hearty breakfast, with the biggest coffee that the shop near his new flat offered. It was good coffee. It was a good morning.

Well. Until they were called out for a domestic that had gone bizarrely wrong. Didn’t need Sherlock to figure out this one. Just had to sort out who did what first. And document, document, document, because it was a string of unlikely events. The man had hid behind the door, and she had slammed it open so hard she had stunned him, and in falling down he had propelled the door into her hard enough to throw her off balance. She’d hit the corner of the table on the way down. Two dead, and there you had it. A full day of paperwork awaited them. 

When he checked his email he estimated that it was now two day’s of paperwork and Sally was going to have to take lead because he had Monday and Tuesday slated for a workshop on security. Which puzzled him for a bit until he remembered the required training which came with the flat. Two bloody days?

“Better you than me, mate,” was all Sally said when he gave her the bad news. So he became busy clearing his calendar because counting his weekend, that was four days away from his desk. 

When he arrived at his old flat, three large teenagers and an old man were waiting, and he opened the door and waved them in. An hour later, he locked the door of the flat for the last time and made his way to the street, where there was not, this time, a car waiting. So he did his errands the usual way and arrived at the new place with an armful of groceries and an example of the delights offered by the Thai place two blocks from his new flat.

He ate his food, put away his groceries, and then wandered the flat. His computer up the stairs was not only set up on the desk and plugged in, but there was already Internet. His charging station for his phone was also plugged in and sitting beside his own bedroom lamp. Only his clothing and personal items needed to be put away.

It would have been creepy but for the fact that he was actually rather grateful. He pottered around putting his clothing into the generous drawers and closets. When he had finished he paused, stepped into the closet and turned out the light. The slats which provided air for the space were, indeed, just at head level and allowed a glimpse into the bedroom. Made sense, if you were escaping danger, you would want to look over the space before going out into it. And a person could, indeed, stand in the closet and spy, although there wasn’t much to see, just a slice of the bed and the view to the door. 

He thought about it as he had his shower and got ready for bed. Why didn’t it bother him? It should bother him, that he could be spied on in his more private moments. Stretched out on his bed, he finally worked it out.

It was because when he imagined someone watching him, the mysterious person was actually Mycroft Holmes. Who had his eye on everything, if not directly, but...huh. Mycroft. He’d always felt puzzled by his reaction to the older Mr. Holmes. The man drew the eye, the way a pretty woman or a handsome man caught your attention. It was not because of his beauty, although there was a tidy elegance to him. Not because of his personality, which was kept severely in control. Not even his intelligence. Sherlock had inured him to bursts of brilliance. Mycroft never let you know how cleaver he was, or how interested, or how invested he might be in any outcome. He voiced concerns, but managed to take the edge off even that.

It was probably the same thing that caused some to be attracted to virginity. All that hidden potential just waiting, matched with a hint of challenge. The boost to the ego when one thought, ‘I could be the one to uncover what’s hidden, I could be the one, maybe even the first one, to see what’s there, to touch and….

And damn if that wasn’t making him a little bothered! He pushed up on his elbows and stared down at his twitching, plumping penis and said, “Bloody hell.” Because nobody in the world got hot thinking about that cold, cinched in, somber man.

Well, except for, apparently, Greg Lestrade.

The next morning was a Saturday. He slept late and enjoyed first a coffee and then a nice big breakfast. Then he went shopping for the perfect sofa. Expensive buggers, and so many of them were stunningly ugly. He didn’t want leather, and he wanted comfort, but not to be drowned in the thing. He finally found one which was not only a joy to sit on, but it could be folded out into a bed. In case something happened and he needed to offer a bed for the night. In his old place, they’d had a second bedroom, mostly used as an office and for storage. 

Delivery couldn’t be until next week, which was okay because he was pretty sure he needed to notify someone about that. Meanwhile, he had some email to catch up on, and he spent the rest of the day at his computer. As it was upstairs sharing space with his bed, he found himself glancing over at the closet once and awhile. 

He cooked himself a rich beef soup with lots of vegetables and ate it with crusty bread and then cleaned up, started the dishwasher and climbed up the stairs with the Kindle his ex had gotten him last Christmas. He hadn’t asked for one, but he was using it more and more. He tried to remember what he had gotten her. Something she had asked for. Oh. Those shoes. Nobody should pay two hundred pounds for a pair of shoes. He wondered who she had worn them for. He certainly had never seen them on her feet after the party they had gone to on New Year’s.

He shook it off. He’d promised himself not to obsess any more. Think about something else. The story he was reading. That worked well enough. An hour later he stretched and got up. Another wonderful shower, and then to bed. On an impulse, he called good-night towards his closet as he climbed under the duvet. He fell asleep almost at once.


	4. Security and the New Norm

There were conferences where one arrived at eight-thirty and had a croissant and coffee or tea. Two sessions of workshops, an hour for lunch, and then one more session, and out the door by four.

This was not one of them. This was like a mini-training for a secret agent. He had a full physical, followed by some fire-arms training and testing, after which he was issued a small gun and the appropriate ammo and holster. Greg, who had not carried a gun for most of his law-enforcement career, was a bit bemused by it, but not really surprised after he gave it some thought. 

This was the only training he had ever attended held just for him. He was not part of a group, so no meeting new people or conversations. The instructors, male and female, wore black suits and blank faces. All perfectly nice and totally forgettable, too. He was issued a second phone, and told how to use it and where to keep it. Later he would find new pockets in his suit jackets, just right to hold it.

A sandwich lunch on his own in a bleak conference room was followed by course in what is ‘disturbing enough to require an alert,’ or ‘immediate action scenario,” and some codes and words to memorize and practice using. He decided that basically, they, whomever ‘they’ were, wanted to be left out of police business and right on top of anything unusual that wasn’t.

Fine. He dragged himself out after seven, found his way to a fish and chips place he had never visited before, and trudged into his home an hour later, now-cold food in hand. But that’s what microwaves were for, and he devoured his food while slouched in a chair in front of the TV. Shower. Bed. This time he only waved towards the closet before falling asleep.

The next day started with paperwork. Lots of paperwork. Apparently the rental agreement was nineteen pages long and had a lot of small print. They waited while he read it. Interestingly enough, just living there and paying the rent gave him an extra life insurance policy. He tired not to dwell on the possibilities suggested by that. It did leave him the a quandary of who to put down as recipient. In the end he put down John Watson and told himself he could change it if necessary. He’d always got the impression John could use some unexpected money.

The paperwork meant he was promising to always engage the security system, always to promptly report any problem, and not interfere with surveillance. He now knew how to identify authorized repair persons, and how to log then in on arrival and out on departure. Electronics already did that, so this was a log to show his own vigilance, the concluded. He was to let no one in not authorized, and trained how to check for proper ID. No contacting his own plumber or anything wild like that.

He had to create a list of anyone who might visit him, ever. He added Sherlock and John, Ed, a few buddies from the early days, and Sally Donovan who had, at least once, dropped him off after work or given him a ride. There were no relatives on his list. He’d lost track of his cousins over the years, didn’t have siblings now. His parents were in an assisted living facility due to his father’s disabilities. His father had been a carpenter, and a wall had fallen on him during a renovation project ten years ago. It had changed his parents, and they hadn’t been all that warm before. Now they were...distant. He was pretty sure that they resented that the favored older children were dead and he alone survived. He saw them once a year and they only contacted him on his birthday and Christmas.

Any large items he bought had to be checked by security before coming into the building. So his new couch would be first on the list and be a test case. Small items went past a sensor at the door as he brought them in, and if it went off he had directions on what to do until the security men arrived.

By the end of the second day, he was surprisingly tired of it all, but at least he was off by mid-afternoon. Quick call to the office to make sure he wasn’t needed and then he used his unexpected few hours of time to prowl a few shops. He’d jettisoned enough clothing that he felt justified finding some new shirts and work-out gear. 

He was able to test the door sensor, which did not go off as it scanned his purchases, thank goodness, and try out the laundry facilities, which worked perfectly, even though the washer had a control panel that would look more at home on a jet plane.

He made an old favorite for dinner and sat with his beef, rice and mushroom mixture, watching bad TV and making an occasional comment to...well, nobody, but hell, he lived alone now and what did it matter? It hadn’t actually mattered when he’d lived with his wife, either. They’d gotten good at tuning each other out. So he could announce, “You, sir, are an utter twat,” to the politician on screen and have the satisfaction of saying it out loud.

He forced himself to unpack the last of his things, to do a few little chores and switch his clothing to the dryer, which actually caused him to have to stop and read the laminated sheet hanging beside it, because it wasn’t an intuitive piece of machinery. Efficient, though. He was hanging up his clothing only half an hour later. And talking as he did it.

“Very nice result on these shirts, mate, gotta thank you,” he said lightly as he eased the clothes onto the hangers or onto the special racks at the end of the closet. “You’re spoiling me, you are. Still haven’t figured out how they came out with this nice smell. Could get used to this!” he teased. 

Not that he thought anyone was there. Really. 

He spent the next hour on his computer, then stood, stretched, and headed for the shower. He usually showered before bed. One never knew when you’d get a call-out in the middle of the night and not have time to do more than throw on some clothing and run. Not that it happened much now at his current rank, but there had been a few times in the last year. Mostly, he had to acknowledge to himself, because of Sherlock Holmes. Maybe if Sherlock ever slowed down, it would affect his own schedule and he’d get a bit more sleep. He chuckled out loud at that and got into bed. 

“Don’t know how much this mattress cost, mate, but my back thanks you,” he said as he turned onto his side. He fell asleep with his head facing the closet.

The next day was a madhouse, and the following days as well. He didn’t get to enjoy his new flat. As his new sofa had come, he found his lack of free time even more vexing than usual. It was a full week before he could plop down, remote in hand, and let himself relax. He fell asleep on the sofa. The next day he met John Watson at a pub for lunch. They caught up on the insanity of life with Sherlock. Greg let John do most of the talking. He’d been warned not to say much about his new flat to his friends, so he couldn’t wax poetic about the shower or the couch or the convenience.

So he came home and told the flat all about it, talking as he cooked as if there were someone to hear. He didn’t know if there was, but sometimes he had the odd feeling of being watched. He set it down to just knowing surveillance cameras were there. 

He eventually fell into the habit of saying good-night towards the closet, apologizing out loud when he stubbed his toe even though he expressed himself with restraint because he didn’t want to offend anyone listening. His mental image of the expression that would we on Mycroft’s face should he let his full repertoire loose kept him grinning, but careful.

It was rather like having an invisible roommate. Sometimes he thought it was actually pathetic, more often he philosophically decided it was much the better alternative to going out and finding some actual companionship. If he did, he’d have to go back to theirs, according to the papers he’d signed. No un-vetted guests here.

Which meant his right hand gave him his pleasure, and when he did it was either in the bathroom under that magnificent shower, or stretched on the upper part of the bed which would theoretically be outside the range of a viewer in the closet. He also learned to be much quieter. There may or may not be watchers or cameras, but he wasn’t going to be shouting just in case loud sounds activated the security system.

On the other hand, sometimes he went to bed nude, and as he spent more time in the gym in the morning due to a shorter commute, he let his satisfaction with his trimmer form cause him to flex or pose, looking over towards the closet and grinning. Showing it off just a bit. Usually from the back, because even his ex-wife had told him his arse was excellent.


	5. Small mysteries and John Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: It occurs to me from the comments that some of you might be expecting a straight-forward romance, when in fact, Mycroft is going to be a little bit screwed up here for a bit, first. The plan is to have it work out more or less, kinda, in the end. Until then, they are going to spend a remarkable amount of time in bed with nothing sexy happening. I thought I should warn you, so that I don’t get berated firmly for unexpected angsty-bits.

He fell into his routines, settled in to his new environment and even had John over one night when Sherlock was off on some obscure trip about which John very carefully didn’t give any details. 

“Do you like it?” John had asked, looking around. 

“Bit different from my usual, but a better price than I’d thought. It’s not as small as it looks. Got everything I need.”

John was staring bemusedly at the giant television. “Apparently so. Does a beer come with that?” he gestured towards the very big screen.

“Yes it does. You pick, it’s got all the channels. No choice on the beer though,” Greg said as he moved towards the fridge.

“I’ll survive.” John said, sinking down onto the sofa with a small sound of pleasure. “Think I’ll move in, in fact.” He got a glimpse of Greg’s face as the beer was handed over and said, “too small for two, actually. Too bad. Unlike a certain flatmate of mine, you probably don’t have a jar of fingernails in the cupboard.”

“I have crisps. That do instead?”

They spent four hours together and as he ushered John outside Greg was sorry to see him go but happy to have his solitude back. Also he wondered if John realized how many of his sentences started with “Sherlock.” Still, good to know everything was okay on that front. One less thing to worry about.

John was also the next visitor, two months later. Greg had been eating a belated dinner, phone in hand, when his other phone gave a modest ding. It was in his suit, thrown over the chair, so he didn’t get to it right away. A female voice addressed him crisply.

“Mr. Lestrade. Please call John Watson and invite him over for dinner. Remind him it is his turn to bring the beer. Meet him at the door and escort him upstairs without delay. Someone will be waiting for him.” Click.

Right. Well, that was easy enough. He hoped that John didn’t think him crazy. But what John said was, “Right...I‘ll, I will be there soon. With beer.” This conversation also ended abruptly. So Greg sat down and finished his meal, because who knows what was going to happen. 

He let John in, took the beer when it was thrust into his arms, dumped it onto the table as he went by and led the way up to the bedroom, where a big man in a dark suit waited. They vanished into his closet. Greg knew better than to follow, or even glance in. He went downstairs and turned on the TV because his impulse was to sit at his computer instead, to keep an eye on the closet door and that was just...no. Wait down stairs and pretend he was having a friend over for the evening. He searched out the biscuits and opened one of the beers. He kept the TV low enough that he could hear if he needed to, but long hours went by with nothing happening except that he watched some very bad television.

Eventually there was a faint sound which may have been the closing of his closet door. A moment later an exhausted John Watson made his way down the stairs, his hand clutching the bannister as if he needed it for balance.

“You look like shite,” Greg said conversationally. “There’s still some of your beer and I can heat up some leftover stew.”

“You’re a saint. I’m starving. Was just sitting down when the call came in. It’s all probably still sitting there on the table. Not like my flatmate would notice.” 

From which Greg deduced that whatever this was, it didn’t have anything to do with Sherlock. Which probably meant someone needed a discreet doctor this evening. He hoped it wasn’t Mycroft or anyone he knew. And he couldn’t ask, he knew that, too. 

He could see questions in Watson’s eyes, but Watson would know not to ask. So they had left-over stew, biscuits and beer, and talked sports and Sherlock until midnight. John got a call telling him a taxi was out front and their evening ended a bit abruptly.

Then, he was alone in his flat, cleaning up, getting ready for bed. As he crawled under the sheets, he called out, “Hope you’re okay, mate.”

There was no answer, of course, and he worried just a bit before sleep managed to catch him.

He kept being worried, off and on, for a week, and then a chance glimpse of Mycroft getting into a car let him figure out that if it were Mycroft who had needed medical help, well, he looked fine now. Mycroft, bending over to speak to someone before he slid into the car, did indeed, look fine. Greg wondered if Mycroft just had a brilliant tailor, or if the rear view was just naturally...good. If you liked that sort of thing. Which Greg did, and he just hoped he hadn’t been caught on camera eying the south end of the British government. 

He went home with a lighter step, hummed as he did his evening tasks, made his dinner. He wondered if the scent of frying vegetables and spicy rice made it up through the vents and tempted anyone’s appetite. Whimsy made him call out, “I’ve enough for two if you’re hungry!” but there was no answer of course and he put the rest of it into his fridge for his meal tomorrow. 

He found himself in bed, later, staring up into the mostly-dark and idly thinking that what he really wanted was for the door to the closet to open, and a shadow drift across his room and into his bed. Long limbs...naked? No not naked, couldn’t see anyone wandering the no-doubt monitored tunnels and passages naked. Okay, in fine silk pajamas. Just lift the duvet, slide in, right up against his warm body. Arms winding around his shoulders, a voice whispering in his ear.

His hand went down as the fantasy grew, and he had to stop at one point, slide open the bedside drawer and fumble for the lube he had there. He was shocked at how easily the images came, how hot it was to think of really filthy things to do to and with his mystery lover. Who was no real mystery at all, It was the face of Mycroft Holmes he saw when he exploded into the best orgasm he had had in years.


	6. As Relationships Go

As relationships go, it was a bit one sided, but remarkably satisfying. Greg was past the point in life when his body drove him to seek out other actual bodies for his satisfaction. Not that he wasn’t still interested, but it didn’t drive him the way it once had. His work hours were too long and his current living arrangements too complex to allow him to seriously go on the prowl. So he and his right hand and his agile, inventive mind, spent nights in his bed with a fantasy lover who never had much to say but always gave him what he needed. 

Sometimes the fantasy didn’t stay in the bed. Sometimes it was sitting across from him at the table, and sometimes it cuddled up against his side as they watched TV, and sometimes he spoke to his phantom out loud.

“We’re going to have to get more bread,” he said, wondering what sort of bread people like Holmes ate. And he found himself at the shops buying two of something, and cooking enough for two—and having the left-overs the next day, even after he realized the pattern. 

He would stand in front of his closet and ask, “Red tie or red stripes?” hardly knowing he had spoken or why he made his choice. But sometimes, he had such a sense of having someone on the other side of the wall, pointing out which one to tie around his neck. 

He walked, at times, around his bedroom naked, and thought he could feel eyes on him. But later, he was rather sure it was his imagination. Had to be his imagination. Totally his imagination. Wasn’t it? And what if the eyes on his aging naked body weren’t those of Mycroft Holmes? There was that assistant, Anthea, and all those hearty security men and women. Did he mind if they saw him in the altogether?

So, he had a tiny bit of a thing where he liked to think of others catching a glimpse of him, sans clothing?

And a really big thing about imagining Mycroft Holmes watching him parade about in the nude.

It was amazing what you could learn about yourself after 40, even after you thought you knew yourself well. 

He could have sought therapy,but he didn’t see his little fixation as getting in the way of work or anything else important. He thought about it when he had a some down time, tried to work out where this attitude had come from, what fed this behavior that had previously not been his norm?

Well, that was easy. It was just that he found Mycroft Holmes hot. Entirely to his taste, and what did that say about him that what he wanted was a prim-mouthed, paranoid, tall drink of water with an umbrella and a power complex of some sort?

Yeah. Well.

If he was enjoying home, work had gotten stranger. Apparently his two days of training was in a database somewhere, because a certain type of case was now shuttled his way. Cases where he dealt with government liaisons, where his resources were used, but those cases were taken away from him, partway through, or he never knew what happened to them after he signed off. And still more situations where the paperwork from another department was passed through his office. Nothing which could upset his ethics or his conscience, but situations that needed a paper trail, or a confirmation, that could be used in future legal action were documented this way. A request for a verification of identity or legal status here or there didn’t take too much time away from their usual efforts.

Sally wasn’t too happy about it, but she was a suspicious type. Suspicion was good, of course, for most aspects of the job. She was sure they were being taken advantage of, doing someone’s job for them. Most of the rest of the team enjoyed the short breaks from murder and mayhem. The change even did them some good, he suspected. Of course, it was on top of their usual, and he hoped the extra did not begin to increase. Not without the addition of another officer or two. 

Eventually, he got the extra officer, a bump up in his budget and a modest increase in his pay. If he had to sign out a car, it was a better car which showed up, instead of the usual efficient but unexceptional vehicle. Even the vending machines in the break room mysteriously upgraded from two cranky and slightly dysfunctional machines to four sleek modern models. Of course, that could just be that they were finally up in a rotation for replacing the units, but Greg had his doubts. He couldn’t find it in himself to be bothered by it, either.


	7. Beyond Midnight

He’d been at the new flat almost six months when it happened. But not the way his fantasies had projected.

He woke up at a sound, the tiniest sound. His sleep fuddled mind finally identified it as the squeak of his closet door opening. His hand slid out and closed on his gun, which was, at night, in a cloth sling designed to hold a remote. He didn’t turn on the light, but asked in a calm, soft voice, “Who’s there?”

A short silence. Then a tired voice said, “Mycroft Holmes. My apologies for disturbing your rest.”

Greg’s hand did not relax on the gun. Under the covers, he brought it up to his lap as he said, “Problem?”

Holmes did not reply with any of the code words. “There is not an emergency. Please do not turn on the light,” he added politely, just as Greg was thinking of doing so.

“Then how may I help you?” Greg asked in his most polite voice. 

“I could not sleep. I needed a short walk but did not wish to go outside. Could not go outside. I thought I would go down to your kitchen and...sit for a moment. A new environment to distract my...mind.”

“”You’re welcome to do that, of course,” Greg said carefully. A tiny corner of him mind was laughing at the demise of a favorite fantasy. Our course Mycroft Holmes was not sneaking into his bedroom to ravish him. “Anything I might do to help?”

“Nothing can help,” Mycroft said bitterly. “I only sought...a change.”

“Do you want me to make you some tea? I can do that in the dark,” he added.

“Do not trouble yourself. Despite popular opinion, there are some problems even tea can not resolve.”

“Then will talking help? Sympathetic ear?” Greg asked, pulling himself up into a more upright position, and easing his gun back into its hiding place. He was using the voice he used to calm down witnesses, projecting a rough serenity that usually worked.

“No.”

“Well, you don’t have to go downstairs. Two chairs up here.”

“I have already imposed upon you to an unacceptable degree.”

“It’s fine. I’m here to help you, aren’t I?”

“Again, thank you, but no.”

Greg let the silence fall between them as he thought about it. Mycroft remained in the doorway to his closet. As his eyes adjusted, Greg became aware that the other man was leaning against the door frame as if he were too tired to remain upright on his own.

“Sit down, anyway,” Greg suggested. “The chair a few steps to your right is comfortable enough.” It was where he sat to pull on his shoes in the morning and he had really no idea how comfortable it would be in the long run. He was gratified when, after a moment of hesitation, Mycroft lowered himself down.

“If you want to be...distracted? I could talk.” Although he had no idea what a Holmes would want to listen to a fuck o’clock in the morning. 

“No.”

Right. “It’s just that you sound tired. You could lay down here. Or on the new sofa. Dead comfortable, it is.”

“No. I can not sleep.”

“Are you sure it won’t help to talk? Don’t have to go into details. Just...generalities.”

Mycroft sighed. “Persistent,” he observed. “I suppose it serves you well in your occupation.”

“Persistence probably serves you well in yours,” Greg said back, and was gratified at a small huff that might have been laughter.

“Very well. I will remind you of your security assurances.”

“Not a word will pass my lips or fall from my fingers,” Greg said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. But it didn’t work. Some situations didn’t call for levity.

“You know, of course, that my brief is wide and my responsibilities...vague.”

“Sherlock said once that you were the government.”

“”Too simple. It is not true. I am, however, an analyst of some ability.”

Greg had figured that out at some point. Behind the scenes, nothing official, lots of influence.

“My brain, and Sherlock’s as well, has the ability to consider the consequences of any action, of many actions, and compute the probable outcome.”

“And then you put an oar in to avoid the worst outcomes.”

“Quite. One chooses from many variables, and each reaction or change results in many new prospects, and choices. The hundreds of ramifications are processed almost instinctively. Each choice splits out a hundred more possibilities, or a thousand. The threads are woven behind you like cloth, and one can see, ahead, the patterns of what is still to be. If one makes a mistake, there are ways to mitigate it. The trick is not only not to make a mistake, but if one does, to minimize the results.”

Greg made an encouraging sound, even as his mind puzzled on where this might be going.

“A few others in each country are doing the same. Or, unfortunately, not. There is chaos deliberately caused, and chaos that is created out of itself, to take into account. A balancing act, as if on a ball, but there are many feet on the ball. Imagine some players the ball with you, others kicking it in the side from the ground. Many people putting obstacles in the way. I can usually direct this process for the betterment of our country, and the allies we have. I can see ahead far enough to plan.”

“Something happened?”

“Too many things happened. Not all at the same time. Some of these forces have been in play for many years. But yes. Something happened. My...ability has failed me.”

“In what way?” Greg asked quietly.

“All...it is a confluence of...there is no way forward that is not blackened by what I see ahead. No strings to pull to prevent what I see developing. Choices, between one horror and another. I can perhaps change enough to survive, to make sure some few elements are not fatally entangled. And so I can not sleep. I run the scenarios, the possibilities, endlessly and not only is the way forward not clear, but the negative is multiplied in some futures to an extent that is without...hope.” He sighed, and said, “That is if I make no mistakes. If I make mistakes, the result will be much worse.”

“That...doesn’t sound good,” Greg admitted. “Is this about...Brexit?”

“No, although that is a factor, of course. That particular string gets more tangled every day.”

“Then are you talking war?” Greg asked.

“There will be war. Wars. All of the four horsemen ride towards us, Gregory. With very sharp swords.”

Greg was left trying desperately to remember. War, famine, okay, and death...and disease? 

“And you don’t know what to do?”

“I know what to do. I will do it. But it will not be enough.” He sighed. “Do you know the Greek myth of Cassandra?”

“The lady no one would listen to?”

“To tell the future and not be believed is very bitter. The gods have spit into my mouth, the snakes have licked my ears.”

Okay, that was...odd. In fact, almost disturbing. 

“I’ll... listen.”

“Thank you for the thought.” It was obviously not a really comforting thought to Mycroft. His head was in his hands now, his body hunched in the chair. “What is worse is...some of these deadly outcomes are the indirect result of my own actions. Or lack of action.

“I did not move against a man name Moriarty soon enough. I did not prevent an assassination in Russia. The man who held my position in Washington has died under mysterious circumstances and I don’t know what forces to blame. I only know the time frame for countering the forces has been disrupted and I can only play catchup from here.”

Greg could see how that could keep a person up at night. A man in Mycroft’s position didn’t dare use drugs to reduce his anxiety and let him sleep. The need to be on top of his game must be burning in him, despite his own knowledge that anything he thought up would be inadequate.

Greg knew what he would want in a circumstance like that. He got up out of bed, went over to Mycroft and pulled him up by an elbow. Using his skills from his days as a copper on the street, he maneuvered the man over to the bed and pushed him down into the spot Greg had been in, Swiftly going around the bed, he climbed in the other side, stretched out and pulled Mycroft’s trembling body into the circle of his arms.

The man was cold. His feet were icy toes with clammy insteps. Greg folded his own toes around the curled feet and pulled the cover up around them both. He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t really imagine what to say. He ran his hand over the trembling arm, let his arm fall over the tense waist. Waited. Mycroft’s body warmed up, but Greg knew his soul was still cold. At some point, Greg drifted off to sleep. When he woke up again, he was alone in bed, and the bright light of the sun was lightening the room.


	8. Other night visists

Greg was quiet as he got up and followed is morning routine. He didn’t realize he was doing it in complete silence until he was seated at his table, spooning in instant oatmeal (flavored with peaches which had never seen an orchard) and found that he was straining his hearing, listening hard for any tiny sound from up in the bedroom. 

He went up to dress, and said loudly, “If you need me, call.” 

No reply of course. He went to work. Constrained chaos, as usual, but he did make inroads on his stack of paperwork. At lunch he stayed at his desk with a sandwich and spent some time on the news headlines, searching for...what, signs the world was falling apart? No more than usual. Which was quite a lot, actually. It’s left him uneasy. He sent his teams out on the murders and bloody crimes and stayed at his desk until it was time to go home, and, although it felt odd, he left promptly at five.

He spent time at the shops, buying as if he were expecting company for the weekend, which he was not. The impulse to stock up against an emergency? In all probability he would never see Mycroft again. It was embarrassing for that self-contained man to show up in the night in that state, showing weakness, and he had the idea that Mycroft Holmes was a proud man. Maybe too proud. Greg was pretty sure Mycroft was in that state because he had never really thought he could fail at the level per perceived he had failed.

Stupid, that. Everyone failed sometimes. Holmes was the type to fail in his own way, though. Not like mortal men. He’d never really failed with Sherlock, for example, although his little brother’s situations challenged him constantly. Probably worked behind the scenes until John had come along, and no doubt there were many aspects of John’s life influenced by Sherlock’s brother. Jobs within a short distance of Baker Street, for example. And that gun John was not supposed to have, Mycroft had probably covered that some way, too.

Greg went home and cooked. He mad a half dozen meals to freeze so that his freezer compartment was full, and then he threw together a cake. He wondered if the scents were drifting up the stairs and through the closet. While the cake was cooling, he cleaned up and filled the dish washer. He never iced his cakes, which he usually flavored enough that the effort—and the calories—weren’t needed. He left them on their rack and finally moved towards the television. 

He watched news programs until he went up to shower. He brushed his teeth twice and wore his best pajamas to bed. No one joined him in the bedroom, and when he did sleep, it was uneasily, as if, even asleep, he was alert to the slightest noise.

He was alone for the next three nights. The fourth night, just as he was drifting off the sleep, the light click of the closet door made him open his eyes. As he sat up, he heard the creak of the chair as someone sat in it. It was not, to his surprise, Mycroft Holmes who sat there. His eyes made out a female form, and when she spoke, he realized it was Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea.

“Don’t turn on the light,” she said softly.

He hadn’t been going to. Greg sat up and said, “Is there a problem?”

“There’s always a problem. But no emergency. I came to tell you we are disabling the alert on this inner door, so that security is not informed every time it is opened. Only I will be warned. This compromises a security element, and so we will be reinforcing security at your outer door. The work will be done during the day to minimize the invasion of your privacy.”

“So. Mycroft….”

“I do not know if he will visit you again, but the night he spent here was helpful to him. He’s not sleeping well. I will do whatever I can to see that he survives this crisis with his intellect and his role intact. He needs the human contact you offered, whether he knows it or not. I have come to ask you to do your utmost to give him...whatever he needs.”

Did that hesitation mean she wanted Greg to give Mycroft something more than support? “It would probably help if you were as clear as you could be,” he said.

“Probably. Mr. Holmes a repressed, controlled man who has never allowed himself physicality. He’s bisexual but only uses sex to further his agenda, whatever it might be. He’s attracted to you but will never make a move. I’m telling you it might be good for the country if you could help him relieve stress. But I don’t know if he will allow it or even seek it. If all you can do is hold him or feed him or give him a massage, I hope you do it. And if he gives a hint he will take more, I hope you shag him into the next country because he needs some relief from the tension. “

Well, that was...direct. Not sure what to say to that. He didn’t have to, she went on speaking without waiting for his answer.

“I ask that you do not, yourself, go through the closet door. Do not go looking for him. I don’t want his edge disrupted, his focus broken. Can you do that?”

“As long as he realizes I’m not to do it. I don’t want him to think he’s not worth it or something.”

“He understands. He knows you will keep your end of the bargain. Another point. You have stopped speaking to the cameras, of pretending your every move is watched.”

“Well, is it?”

“Not as much as you might think. No camera in your bedroom except from the inner door, focused on the entrance to the room. There is an audio pick-up. He can often hear what you say and I believe he had taken comfort from it. Keep on talking to him, having those one-sided conversations. It was the only bright point of his day.”

“You mean he never got to see my better side?” Greg joked.

“As for that, I would not know. I only tell you that the alert is off the door now, and he will know it. He can come and go with as much privacy as I was able to get him.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t do it for you. I do it for him. He will be facing a domestic crisis this week and an international clusterfuck next week. One or the other will no doubt bring him to at least watch you sleep.”

“He does that?” Greg tried not to let himself feel too pleased about that. 

“When he can’t sleep himself. Which is too often. Usually on the camera feed, but sometimes in person. He finds it relaxing, or gives him a quiet focus. I don’t know. It will help the country if you do what you can for his peace of mind.”

Mycroft did not have peace of mind, at all. Did she know it? She was standing up. “Be careful,” she said, and was gone.

________________________________

Greg didn’t go back to sleep right away. He had to think it out. He had, apparently, if not permission, then at least encouragement, to make moves on Mycroft. But his instincts said no, not to push it. But Anthea seemed to think it would be good for Mycroft. Maybe even a brain that big went off-line during sex and released some stress. Or maybe she just wanted him physically exhausted. With that lot you had to question their motives. All the time. He wondered if that young lady was another who saw all the possibilities, all the threads. What she was doing besides easing Mycroft’s way into his bed?

He didn’t come to any conclusions, so he forced himself to stop thinking about it. He needed his sleep. He did wake up at his usual time, and he remembered to say, “Good morning! Oh, I lie, of course, listen to that rain!” as he selected his clothing for the day. Breakfast and coffee had their running commentary, and as he went out the door he realized that he felt better for it. He’d sort of missed his one-sided chats.

Work went well enough that he could spend his lunch hour in the gym; he finished his sandwich at his desk. The entire afternoon was meetings with his various team members on the status of their cases. Two they were going to have to give up on, and another five were not getting much movement. Nothing he could call Sherlock in on, but just as well. Sherlock was pretty busy now that he’d come back from the dead. Not the same man he had been, either. Jumpier, and maybe using again.

Greg wondered if the situation with Sherlock was something that contributed to Mycroft’s unease. He had to have made some hard decisions in sending his own brother off to take down Moriarty’s organization. Greg was not naive enough to think it had been easy for wither one of them. He did wonder how many times Sherlock had to actually kill a person. Murder, even in a good cause, changed a man. Just ask John Watson or any soldier. Even if Sherlock had killed remotely, with bombs or gas or paid assassins, it was still a terrible thing for the soul.

Mycroft had some responsibility in what it had done to Sherlock. To John Watson. They’d been damaged men before, and now they were broken. That had to weigh heavily on Mycroft. 

He really regretted promising not to go find Mycroft at night. Once Mycroft had a plan or a confirmed slate of reactions, he might not feel the need to come to anyone else for help. For comfort. And Greg felt a deep need to comfort the man. But maybe, for Mycroft, being wrapped in loving arms was not a comfort, even if it was a distraction. Maybe it was one more element to be juggled.

If you pushed a swing wrong, it did not always return on the same trajectory. Depending on the weight in the swing, it could come at you smoothly or wildly. The next push might correct the arc, or make it worse. Greg decided that Mycroft must have dozens of swings in play, and they were all heading for his head. Ducking one put you in the path of two others. Considering how many swings had been in play to eliminate Moriarty, and how many of those might still be arcing back on him...hell, after a few decades of that game, there were probably effects from years ago showing up now.

So he did not really have much hope that he would see Mycroft Holmes in his bed again.

Which was why it was a surprise when he went up to bed one night and found it already occupied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I have used the swing metaphor before. But in a different fandom, so do please forgive me. But, it just sort of worked.


End file.
